Too Loud
by WhimsicDoctor13
Summary: A 1-shot prompt a friend gave me on tumblr. "High school AU Johnlock. Sherlock has severe depression and is suicidal. John is his only friend and has feelings for him, but is afraid to tell Sherlock. One day, Sherlock doesn't come to school and John receives a text from Sherlock." Recreation of Reichenbach Fall, with tweaks. Please be gentle, I wrote it at 1 am without editing.


John marched across the quad, cursing in his head as he made the decision to leave school. He was worried about Sherlock. As usual. It seemed that, instead of the stress over studies and grades and girls and popularity that he had focused on up to his freshman year, all of John's worries were focused on Sherlock. He had been quiet, less big-headed and less of a rude arsehole. The entire school had accused him of being the the Reichenbach gang leader, the murderer of the teenage reporter last week.

And now he was missing, had been missing the entire day. Not overall unusual. "I have nothing to learn here. I already know everything. The Teachers are idiots who wouldn't know their own subject if it slapped them in the face and the_students _are little better than decomposing feces and compost no, they're _worse. _At least _compost _is_useful."_ Sherlock had scoffed when John had scolded him about his frequent truancies. "I'm going to try and not feel offended." John had replied, but Sherlock was already rattling on about the science fair and how he would show those _imbeciles _how it was really done. That's what worried John about Sherlock's dissapearence. Today was the science fair, the one Sherlock had been preparing for for weeks.

John knew about his loneliness. He knew about the cuts. He knew that every sound, aroma, movement was incredibly sharpened by Sherlock's aspergers until his head was a brilliant mess of tangled thoughts. He didn't know how to help the darkness inside Sherlock's own head go away. He just knew that he wanted to hold him close, maybe even run his lips over his jutting cheekbones, his fluttering eyelids no. No he didn't. He didn't know what he was thinking.

John's phone suddenly buzzed, startling him. John whipped out his phone, hands inexplicably shaking. Why was he nervous? He wasn't- he wasn't nervous. Had no reason to be. Then why did he feel strangely sick? And there it was. A simple text. Immediately, John sped dial. It picked up after the second ring.

"John." came the voice, velvety and quiet.

"What the hell was that text about?" John insisted, panicked. "'I lied, I'm sorry. Go back to school now.' You never say you're sorry. And you don't lie. Not to me." He brushed aside the time Sherlock had tested sugar he suspected as crystal meth on him, but that was different. "Your mum said she hasn't seen you, she'll just be glad you're alive. Where are you, the science fair, it was today."

"I…. I decided not to, John." came the quiet reply. "Well, obviously-"

"No. I decided… I decided not to be alive. Anymore."

John's heart turned to a block of ice in a second. "What are you talking about? Where are you?" he demanded raspily, automatically starting in the way of Sherlock's.

"No! Don't go home. Turn around and go back the way you came." commanded the voice from the mobile.

"Where do I-"

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

And John looked up, and there he was. I tiny figure on top of St. Bart's, where they had first met three years back. His dark coat billowed behind him, his mobile by his ear. John's mouth went dry. "Oh god."

"I— I— I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this."

What the hell was he doing up there? "What's going on?" His voice cracked. "An apology." came the voice, as if kept steady in a incredible effort.

"It's all true."

John's skin froze over his bones. "What?"

"Everything they said about me. I… I'm the one who killed that girl. In the gang fight. She didn't think me clever. She- she threatened to expose me for being the leader of… of the Reichenbach gang. I'm the one who spiked all the coffee and tea and puddings with meth last year. They're… I killed them all." Each word uttered seemed to crumble the resolve in Sherlock's voice. John heard emotion crack through the once stoic tone.

"Why are you saying this?" John whispered. He was lying, he _knew _he was.

The tiny Sherlock on the roof seemed to shudder violently, as if breaking down everything inside him he had ever called himself. "I'm. A. Fake." came the shaking voice.

He didn't believe him. Of course he didn't. "Sherlock—" Sherlock barreled forward.

"The teachers, the staff, the police, they were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you." With each sentence fragment, his voice grew thicker. "Everything I do, it's not really me. Never what I _want _to do. I'm weighed down, John. By lies and people and my _damn head._" A dry sob.

Real tears threatened to sting John's eyes now. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. You are always yourself. You're the only one in the entire damn school who really is themselves. The first time- the first time we met, you knew everything about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could." he insisted. He was _Sherlock, _it's who he was. Always.

A rattling chuckle seemed to echo through the phone. It was a laugh of agony. "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." He paused, wavered, and despite the distance, John saw his face crumple. "It's a trick." Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "_It's just a magic trick." _

No. No, he wasn't buying it. Why was Sherlock lying? Why? "No. Alright, stop it now." He moved to somehow _get to Sherlock, _his first instinct, _always _was to get to Sherlock.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move!" Sherlock begged.

He pleaded so pathetically, John could do nothing but stop. "Alright." "Keep your eyes fixed on me." Sherlock begged again, so desperate.

He had once said he never begged for mercy. And here he was, broken. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" Yes. Yes to _anything _just _please come down._

"This phone call, it's… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." Another shaky attempt at a laugh. Dry humor speckled the tears in his voice.

_I decided not to live anymore. _rang like alarm bells in John's memory. "No. You can't."

"Too loud, John." Another shaky breath, blocked with tears. "I'm so tired. Tired of lying. Tired of _being. _I'm sorry. I want quiet."

"What do you mean? What quiet? Leave a note when what?" _No. No no no._

_"_Goodbye John."

And then he tossed the mobile onto the roof, spread his arms like a beautiful, slender bird- and fell forward. John screamed into the phone, screamed into the sky, "SHERLOCK!"

But Sherlock didn't hear. He was flying down, struggling in the air like he was drowning in the middle of the water, an ocean of noise and lies and heaviness. His long limbs turned in the air, and for a moment, John thought he saw a pair of dark wings grow from his back. Sherlock's eyes closed as he observed the pavement rushing at him, his peace nearly there.

He hit the ground. Of course he did. John didn't know why he had expected otherwise. But he was there, screaming his name, there before the crowd had even gathered around the broken form. Sherlock's limbs were twisted, blood stained his paper skin and the cold sidewalk. For a moment, his pale eyes gazed up into John's. "I'm sorry." Sherlock rasped. Then with a shudder, he was still.

John touched his neck, felt the air over his lips, _nothing_. The hot red stained his pants, he didn't care. Hands were grabbing him now. _No. No. They couldn't take him away. _Gnashing at the hands, John desperately dove for the broken genius on the pavement. His own lips pressed into Sherlock's still-warm ones. He was just like sleeping beauty, it would bring him back.

Nothing. Now how was that fair? Hadn't he loved him enough? Sherlock's body was cooling under his very touch now. He went boneless as the adults dragged him away, off.

Authorities gathered to take the body away, because that's all it was. It was just a body. It wasn't Sherlock. John didn't watch. The boy was a stranger. Sherlock was still alive. Numb, John pulled out his mobile, closed his eyes as he listened to the dial tone. He was empty except for three words, three words and then he'd be hollow.

"I love you." The dial tone sounded for fifteen more seconds before his thumb clicked, _call end._


End file.
